


Boucenna's Walk

by Janissa11



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stranded in the desert in high summer, Nick discovers what it takes to survive, and meets a few friends along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For a moment all he can think is, Not again. Staring at the tiny barrel of the gun, smoke still curling. Not THIS again.

The difference, of course, is that this gun has already been fired. Beside him, Deputy Carson lies panting open-mouthed, his faded blue eyes gazing up at Nick as if expecting him to do something, save him. Call in the cavalry. Blood turns Carson's lips carmine.

"Just in case you think I won't use it," Lloyd says. He grins and shakes his head. "Boy, you are in a pickle now, aren't you? Shot him. What's to stop me from shooting you, too?"

Nick meets his reptilian stare. "Nothing," he says softly. He feels tired all of a sudden. Sleepy. How weird. "I don't guess."

"Got that right." The grin gets wider. "But I don't think I'm gonna. Know what I'm gonna do instead?"

He doesn't want to know. But he'll find out. "What?"

The gun touches Nick's cheek, only a little hotter than the air around them. It's so hot. Christ, it's hotter than it was yesterday, and that's saying something. He closes his eyes.

"Think I'm just gonna leave you here," Lloyd whispers, as he runs the tip of the barrel over Nick's cheekbone, prods his closed eyelid. "How long you think you're gonna last? A day or two?" When Nick doesn't reply, Lloyd nudges his eye, harder. It hurts. "What do you say, boy? How long?"

"Leave us some water," Nick croaks. "Please."

"Now why would I wanna do anything like that? Spoils all the fun."

It's not even a relief to know Lloyd isn't going to kill him outright. The desert will do that for him. No water equals death, and not a pleasant one. Not fast enough, not nearly. Nick fights down a welling of pure despair and shakes his head. "Even with what we got, you know we won't make it far. Do at least that much? You don't need it. You've got the car now. You've got the gun and everything you need. You're gonna get away. Why torture us too?"

Lloyd grins again, baring yellowed teeth. His breath is appalling. "Because torture's fun, pretty boy," he hisses. "You and your gutshot friend here. Lost in the desert. Why, that's just all kinds of fun. Too bad I can't stick around to watch."

"Bastard," Nick whispers hopelessly.

"Yep, that, too." Lloyd laughs, and the gun retreats, stuck back in the waistband of his dirty jeans. "That and more."

"You're gonna pay for this." Nick licks his lips and something inside him quivers at how dry they already are, starting to crack. "When I get out, I'm gonna make sure of that."

Something like a real smile wreathes Lloyd's face, oddly sympathetic. "Son, you ain't gonna get out," he says in an absurdly gently voice. "You'll figure that out. Nobody around for miles and miles. Might live longer if you stay put, but if you don't move, you won't find anybody. Kinda damned if you do, damned if you don't, huh?"

Nick doesn't say anything to that. No need.

He watches Lloyd grab his gear and sling it in the back seat of the Tahoe. Nick was a Boy Scout, Nick was always prepared. If he could keep the vehicle, he could get Carson out. Even if the truck didn't run, he could unload his stuff, lots of water and supplies, maybe set the truck on fire. Signal someone.

But Lloyd's taking it all. Radios, cell phone. The flares, the tarp Nick always figured he could use for a tent in a worst-case scenario. Food. Water. It's all leaving.

Carson makes a gurgling sound, and Nick looks down to see blood trickling from the corner of the deputy's mouth. He's dying already.

Nick tries not to think how lucky Carson is.

"So, I'd say, see you around. But I won't." Lloyd climbs in behind the wheel, gives Nick a cheery wave. "If I were you, I'd find me some shelter. Gonna be a scorcher today, I guarantee." He beams at him. "Y'all take care now. Thanks for the wheels."

"Fuck you," Nick says harshly, but the window's already rolled up and the wheels are scratching in the sandy gravel. Turning, heading out the way Nick and Carson came, barely daybreak then, following a road so shitty he'd called it a goat track on the way.

He watches Lloyd drive away, truck bouncing over the terrain. It's forty miles that direction to the nearest town. Twenty before you hit pavement. Behind him is nothing but craggy mountains. No idea how far it is in that direction before you hit civilization. Might be closer, might not be. But the trip would kill him long before he had a chance to find out.

"Go," Carson says in his gurgling voice. "Get going. Gotta – find some sh—shade."

Nick draws a long breath and looks down at him again. "You're coming with me."

Carson shakes his head. "No." A bubble of blood forms between his lips, pops and sprays fine droplets of red over his lips. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are," Nick says urgently. "Come on. You can do it. We'll –"

"Remember -- Remember that wash we went through? Back about fifteen miles?" Another bubble, and this time Carson coughs, and the flow of blood strengthens, dribbling over his chin. His blue eyes fix with unbearable energy on Nick's face. Nick nods helplessly. "Used to be – folks. Lived east of there. Freaks, fucking – hippies or something." He makes a cawing sound that Nick takes a moment to realize is a laugh. "Jesus, my belly hurts."

"Don't talk," Nick croons hopelessly. "God, Carson."

"No. You go back there. Tonight, when it's – cooler. Go east down the wash. Mile or two. Don't -- Don't know if they're still there, but. Houses. Got a well someplace. You'll have – water."

He could make some kind of travois. He scans the area, gnawing on his too-dry lower lip. No fucking trees. Useless desert vegetation, cactus, a little mesquite. Not strong enough. Not nearly.

Carson's fever-hot hand grips Nick's wrist with surprising strength. "You gotta get out of the sun," he says very clearly. "It'll – be 120 again today. Maybe hotter. Go to – ground. Find someplace. Start a fire."

Nick barks a sharp sob. "I'm not just – leaving you," he whispers. His throat aches sharply, and it's not just from thirst.

"Can't do nothing now." Carson's face twists with agony, and he turns his head away. "Go, for fuck's sake. Remember the wash."

Nick swallows, again, grits his teeth. Then he says, "I'll come back for you. I will."

"Good," Carson whispers in his bubbling voice. His hand drops Nick's wrist, scrabbles at the neck of his shirt. He pulls out a medallion and breaks the chain around his neck with a fast yank. "Give this to Patsy."

Nick takes the pendant and sees it's a St. Christopher medallion. He tucks it carefully in his pocket, shoves it down where it won't slip free if he has to climb. "I will," he promises, tears in his eyes. "Don't worry."

Carson doesn't say anything else. He's alive when Nick stands up, but his breathing is Cheyne-Stokes now, loud and stertorous and dying. There isn't anything anyone can do at this point. If they beamed into an ER right this second, Carson would still die. Too much damage.

It's hard to see because he's crying, and he reaches up and wipes his eyes. The thread of dust from his own retreating Tahoe is long gone. It's quiet, even the birds are silent. Only the hiss of the ever-present wind, pushing along dust, whispering through the mesquite.

Behind him, the Cheyne-Stokes stops. Nick doesn't look around.

* * *

The goat-track road winds vaguely south, southwest. His watch informs him it's ten-sixteen. Still morning, still vaguely early, but the sun beats down on him like fists already. No idea how hot it already is. At least a hundred. Probably higher.

"You'd better start thinking about shade," Carson tells him. "Like I said."

The voice is so clear Nick actually spins around, expecting to see him standing there. Intestines hanging out in gray-white loops, blood on his lips, dispensing calm, sage advice as if he weren't at the very end of dying.

He's not there. No Carson. No Lloyd, with Nick's car and Nick's things, and let's face it, pretty much Nick's LIFE in his grimy hands. No one. Just the wind, and the dust, not even a goddamn jackrabbit in sight.

He wipes sweat off his forehead and thinks, How long until that stops, too? You know, when you stop sweating, you're not doing so well. So far so good, but you're already so thirsty you'd drink radiator water if you could get it. How far until you'd drink worse? Ten miles? Twenty? A few more hours? Tomorrow?

Shade. That's important. Standing out here in the blazing sun won't do him any favors. He shades his eyes, turns and looks south again. There's not a lot ahead. No trees, not even the few puny mesquites back the mile or two he's already come. It's a valley; mountains around, but more than a day's walk away.

Well, he's felt thirsty before. Majorly thirsty. There was the trip to Big Bend, back when he was in college. Sam was so sure he knew where the goddamn campsite was, except they hadn't been anywhere near where he thought they were starting out. Six extra hours of hiking in desert conditions much like these, and their one remaining canteen of water had been gone long before they finally saw that patch of bright red tent. It had sucked, sure, but it was doable. This would be, too. Had to be.

Except Big Bend hadn't been midsummer. Dry, yes, but not summer. It was spring break, still snow around some places, and he'd sweated like a son of a bitch but it hadn't ever really gotten to him.

This here was like hiking over a well-heated cast-iron skillet. And this wasn't the bad part of the day. This was the good part.

He licks his lips and glances at his burnt forearms. Well, gee, good old Lloyd took the fucking sunscreen with him, too, didn't he? Along with the long-sleeved tee shirt Nick had in the back. So he'd court a little skin cancer down the line. Small potatoes, really.

He draws a deep breath and tries not to hear Mike Carson's mournful dead voice. "Gonna get a lot worse than this, Nicky. You ready for that? Really?"

Come to think of it, Carson sounds an awful lot like Gil Grissom. And Grissom has never steered him wrong. He knows about shit.

Shelter. That's the ticket. And tonight when it cools off, if he hasn't been found first, he'll hit the road again.

* * *

"When I get back," Nick whispers, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "I'm gonna start smoking again." He draws a quick breath, and ignores the ache of his tired hands. "That way -- I'm always gonna have -- a lighter. In my goddamn -- POCKET."

It's taken for-fucking-ever to find flint around here. And dragging together enough crap to light on fire has put him well into the afternoon.

"Cigarette – would just make me – thirstier. Right?" The sparks are so goddamn small, and it's so windy. "Just CATCH!" he roars suddenly, but it doesn't, and he barely stops himself before he flings the stupid useless rocks as far away from himself as he can get them.

He sits back on his heels and closes his eyes briefly. First order of business: shelter. He's sort of got that part done. It's just a rock, a shallow overhang, but it's out of direct sunlight, and now, at close to two in the afternoon, shade is everything. Can't fucking believe how hot it is out here.

Second order of business: light a fire. That's what he remembers from those scouting trips all those years ago. Actually he thinks a fire is supposed to be the first thing, not the second, but in this heat he cares more about shade than anything else.

Fire's for warmth, which is a fucking joke, ha ha, like he will ever want to be warm again. But it's also to create smoke, and light. They have to be looking for them now. Him and Carson. Carson, who is probably the reason he saw buzzards circling back the way he's come. Bodies go bad fast in this heat. Those pale blue eyes are probably gone by now. Snap, snap, yummy.

A surge of bile burns the back of his parched throat.

"The fire, Nicky," Grissom says gently. Calmly. "Start the fire."

God, the man's voice is like water. Cold, clean water. Nick swallows acid and nods. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay, man. Keep your pants on. Don't happen to have a match on you, do you? No? Figures."

He picks up the flint again.

* * *

When he wakes up he thinks the fire has gotten out of control. It's so hot, how'd it get so close? He was careful, wasn't he?

He sits up and sees the flames, still going, but not out of control, no, just a pretty decent blaze, whipped a little by the wind. No, it's just this hot. It's five-twenty in the afternoon, and it's hotter than yesterday. It's hotter than he thinks maybe he's ever felt before. What was yesterday's high? It's hotter out here than in the city. He's west, way west. 115? 120?

And he's so thirsty. Hungry, too, but he's so thirsty. His mouth tastes foul, and his lips are cracked worse now. Bad enough to hurt. His heart's pattering along inside his chest, far faster than his normal resting pulse.

He shrinks back against the rock. It's hot, too, but he wants as far away as he can get from that crucifying sunshine. Like a vampire, he thinks, gonna burn me up.

"Sleep," Catherine says, and pats the sandy ground. "Go to sleep, Nicky. You'll wake up when it gets dark. Then you can find that farm Carson was talking about. Water. There'll be water there. A well."

Nick smiles and leans over. The ground isn't that bad. Kind of soft, actually. It's almost possible to pretend that Catherine's cool hand touches his forehead, right before he closes his eyes.

* * *

Not much happens while Nick is asleep. The vultures have been busy, that much is true, and Mike Carson, who loved the rodeo and had a horse named Eldon, damn fine roping horse, won him just about all the trophies in his den, and whose wife is just about ready to dinner for their three kids and herself, roast chicken and corn on the cob and her good canned green beans, and wondering just how long Mike's damn job was going to keep him tonight, no longer looks much like Mike Carson. When they find his body the next afternoon, it isn't immediately clear whose it is. It takes checking the shield in his pocket for that.

The real action's in Vegas, but no surprise there. Sin City, right? Lots of people sin during Nick's nap. And a few do other things. Gil Grissom, for one, who goes to sleep quite a bit earlier than Nick, only to have that nice sleep rudely interrupted by a phone call from their police colleague, Jim Brass. What he has to say jolts Gil out of bed so fast he trips on a discarded shoe and then rams his toe against the leg of the bed, hard enough to split the toenail right down the middle. He's limping when he gets to the lab half an hour later, and it takes a little bit of surgery a week later to fix that mutilated nail.

But other than the busy buzzards and a few soporific insects, there's not a lot going on right where Nick is, but the wind. Nick has walked nearly five miles before his nap. Not that far, but like his friend Sam back in college, he hadn't started where he thought he had. Instead of the center of Nye County, he and Carson had been way west, farther than either had known. Almost exactly five hundred yards behind him lies the state line dividing Nevada and California. Carson's hippies, who moved out en masse seven months ago after one of their group was diagnosed with cancer and required chemotherapy back in their native San Diego, lived nearly seventeen miles north and east of where Nick currently lies, sleeping restlessly with his face pushed against his arm. In his current direction, he'll reach China before he gets to that little plot of land that popped up volunteer corn and beans and some pretty decent weed this past spring.

On his current heading, he'll reach Death Valley a long time before China.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

About three seconds after he wakes up the next time, he realizes he has never felt thirsty before in his life. He's thought he knows what it feels like. But he's never had a clue.

This, now. This is thirsty.

He moans a little, but all that emerges between his cracked lips is a little hiss of air. His head is pounding, and he has no sense of taste at all. His tongue feels like a foreign object inside his mouth, dry and alien, like he should spit it out. As if he had any spit to start with. There's nothing there.

It's dark, and his fire's still going. That's good, right? Even the wind has died down a little, although fitful little spasms of breeze kick up occasionally.

He pushes himself to his feet, and sways back against the rock he's been hiding under while he fights down a surge of dizziness. Got up too fast, that's all. Got a head rush. Slow and easy, Stokes, don't fucking fall over.

God, it's still hot. How can that be? It has to cool off. He looks at his watch, blinking several times before his foggy eyes will make out the numerals. Nearly ten. Daytime heat hasn't had time to dissipate yet, not completely. At least the sun is beating down on his head.

It's time to get moving. He's going to make it to that farm tonight. He has to.

"When you get back, first three beers on me." Warrick grins at him, teeth glinting in the firelight. "Whaddaya say?"

"Sounds good," Nick says, although it's mostly air. "Gonna remember that."

"Come on. Let's get outta here."

Warrick walks with him for a while. There's moonlight, enough that Nick doesn't trip too often. His jeans are braceleted around his ankles with stickers after a while, thanks to the few plants he lumbers through, but he can see to avoid big obstacles. The idea of falling, maybe breaking something, sends a spike of terror stabbing down his spine. He's got enough trouble already; a broken ankle would mean death.

"I don't wanna die," he whispers, and his eyes burn without any tears to wet them. "I'm not ready to die. Not yet."

At his side Warrick sighs. "You ain't gonna die," he says, hands in his pockets. "Trust me."

"Are you looking for me?"

"Course we are."

"Why haven't you found me yet?"

Warrick wavers, shivering like a mirage. Nick reaches out, and his fingers waft through Warrick's arm, touching nothing at all. He's not there. He wasn't ever there.

"Come back," Nick rasps. He coughs a dry sob, shaking his head. "Don't leave me here."

There's no reply. There never was one. He's hallucinating, something.

The moon hangs motionless and fat in the east. He gets his bearings again, trudges forward.

* * *

How many miles has it been? The moon is past overhead, giving off a decent amount of light, but he can't get his eyes to cooperate and focus on his watch. Must be maybe two? Feels as if he's been walking for days. Well, nights.

If he had his GPS he could make sure he's going in the right direction. Lately he's used that puppy a lot, handy little fucker. And it would really be useful now, because he really should be coming to the wash soon, the one Carson told him about. East at the wash. Only a mile or two. There'll be a well. Water. Maybe people, and a phone, but water's the thing that sounds good right now. Good, like oxygen. Good, like not dying.

A coyote cries out off to his right. Nick flinches, but it's miles away. And there's another one, answering, and maybe two more. Like a freaking coyote choir. Pretty dissonant, but in a weird way it makes him feel less lonely. There are living things out here. It's not as deserted as he feels it is.

A few minutes later he trips on a stone, and falls flat on his belly. Knocks the air clean out of him, and he lies there wheezing, breath pushing up a little puff of dirt.

"Aw, get up, you fucking faggot."

Nick jerks, rolls to the side. Knows that voice, oh yeah, that's a real familiar tone.

Brian Ledbetter rolls his eyes. His uniform is so clean it glows in the moonlight. The number twelve is plain on his chest. "Still a pussy," he croons, and makes that hee-haw snorting laugh. "You'll never change. Haven't got it in you."

Nick's face is hot with humiliation. What a dick, Ledbetter was always a prick, always watching him, waiting for him to fumble, trip, fall. Which he only seemed to do when Ledbetter was around. Good quarterback, maybe a little light for the job but he was fast, real fast when he wanted to be. Brian looms over him while he scrambles to his feet, wipes his hand over his face.

"Never gonna be Cabe," Ledbetter pronounces, with a scornful up-and-down look. "He could play. Go back to baseball, Stokes. That's where pussies like you belong."

"Fuck you." Except all that comes out is "fuh-yuh."

Brian keeps laughing while Nick walks away. A little like the coyotes, that same barking high giggle. More like a hyena. Nipping at his underbelly. Hates Ledbetter. God, hope you're dead of a coronary by now, you fat brainless motherfucker.

The coyotes sing, and Nick walks.

* * *

There is no wash. He's pretty sure of that now. And that means something, something important. He has to figure out what that is. Pretty soon.

And he has to piss. How crazy is that? His mouth is so dry he can't even feel his tongue anymore, and still his bladder is complaining, stridently. He's gotta take a leak, let WATER out. That's jacked up.

He faces southwest, and thinks about Brian back with the coyotes, glad that shithead can't make fun of the size of Nick's dick or something. Not that he has anything to be ashamed of, nossir, but guys like Brian always had to make you feel small and shitty about something. What better than the package?

It hurts to piss. Like his body changed its mind at the last moment, decided it wants to keep it instead. He makes a face, listens to the slow droplets hitting the hard-packed ground. Oh God almighty, he's so thirsty. Water's like a goddamn wet dream now, literally, he dreams about it, fantasizes about it. Different kinds of water. A sweaty 20-ounce bottle, fresh from the fridge. A lake, shimmering in the distance. A sprinkler with rainbows flickering in the spray. Waterfalls, a pier on Possum Kingdom Lake. His shower at home.

He has a drop of urine on his hand. Rubs it against his tongue. Christ, salty, disgusting. He'd never stoop that low. But maybe he will. Maybe he'll have to.

"It's sterile," Grissom says philosophically, next to him. He's pissing, too, getting a pretty good arc there, Griss. Gonna write your name? "It might not be so bad."

Too late anyway; Nick's bladder is empty, although it pulses hotly in the wake of elimination, pissed off and sullen. He zips his jeans and rubs his cold hands together.

At his side, Grissom's ready, too. "Well, let's go."

"I think I'm going the wrong way."

Grissom purses his lips, gazes off southeast. "Didn't you have directions?"

"Yes, but."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Nick shakes his head slowly. "I want to sit down for a second."

Grissom's gaze is level, and kind. "Do you think that's really wise?" he asks softly.

"Just for a minute. Please?"

"Okay."

"If I go to sleep, will you wake me up?"

"Of course I will."

"An hour, tops. Okay? No longer."

Gil taps his wristwatch. "I'll make sure."

Nick nods and sits down hard, right where he is. He rubs his hot arms with his cold hands and closes his eyes.

* * *

The real Gil Grissom's not all that far away. If Nick knew how close, he'd be more than surprised. About forty miles, as the crow flies. Or the buzzard, if you will.

Of course, under the circumstances, Grissom might as well be prospecting on Mars, for all the good he can do. He sips from his bottle of water and thinks about Nick out there someplace. It was easy, picking up Chuck Lloyd. Nick's vehicle, and a sharp-eyed state trooper outside Beatty, voila. If he didn't sing like a bird, at least he coughed up where he left them.

It's about an hour to sunrise. Not too late. No, it won't be too late.

Jim Brass, who hasn't figured in Nick's fever-and-thirst-borne hallucinations yet but who will make his debut fairly soon, looks over at Grissom. "Nearly 24 hours out here in this hellhole? You think he's okay?"

Grissom doesn't glance at him. Waiting for the sun to come up. Give them some light. His toe throbs. "Okay, no. Alive, yes."

"Can't have gotten far. We'll have men crawling all over this area in a couple of hours. We'll find him."

That makes Grissom look at him. "Nick knows better than to wander," he says. "That's a cardinal rule. Stay where you are. Let yourself be found."

Brass shrugs. "If where they were was as bad as Lloyd said? He better not have stayed put."

"If he didn't –" Grissom halted, considering. "If he didn't, we're looking at a much tougher search."

Brass doesn't say anything. Just nods.

Grissom drinks his water and resumes gazing east. Waiting for the sun.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

When Nick wakes up, it's light, and a scorpion is standing about an inch from his face.

He stares at it. This close it looks alien, gigantic, like something out of a cheesy Japanese horror movie. The Scorpion That Stomped Las Vegas.

It edges closer, and he edges back. Flicks his fingers at it, and it retreats.

His headache is worse. So much worse. He squints in the vapid sunshine, shades his eyes. The sun actually feels good. He's cold. His hand feels frozen, like it doesn't even belong to him. Someone else's hand, stapled onto his arm during the night.

He watches the scorpion trundle away. Wonders what scorpions taste like. If maybe they're wet on the inside. Grissom would know. Is the whole thing poisonous, or just the stinger part?

Grissom's gone. There's no one around. The coyotes are silent, just the wind brushing against his face, like greedy little fingers, exploring him. You're ours now, honey. We'll keep on touching you until you fall over and you can't get up that time. We'll hold you and rock you and cradle you against the sand, and suck the last drop out of you, scour the skin from your bones, and leave your skeleton like a warning in a white ribcage and long white leg bones. You can't fool Mother Nature. You dumb shit.

A buzzard lands about ten feet away, flapping its wings explosively.

Nick recoils, uttering a harsh bark of wordless disgust. Oh no you do NOT get me yet, you miserable carrion eating garbage. Finished off Carson and you came for me? FUCK you, no fucking WAY.

Panting, he takes off one of his shoes and flings it at the staring bird. Shot goes way wild, soaring at least three feet to the left of his target, but it does the trick. The buzzard caws and flaps its huge wings, takes off into the sky. Nick watches, breath hitching in his chest, while it rises, rises. Circles. Doesn't leave.

"Not dead yet," Nick croaks. "Not yet, motherfucker."

After a minute he gets up. Stupid idea, throwing the shoe like that. But he doesn't regret it. He stands hunched over while waves of dizziness wash over him. Worse than Pete Martinez's wedding reception, way back in Denton, he'd gotten so drunk he'd actually forgotten most of the second half of the party, and woke up on the roof of Denise Chambers' car. Dizzy then, too, but man, nowhere near like right now. His stomach turns over.

When the landscape steadies a little he minces over to find his shoe. Sits on a rock to put it on. His toes are blue. Feet are amazingly cold. Can't figure that part out. It's already warm, and getting a lot warmer. Why are his feet and hands cold? He ties the shoe awkwardly, and pushes himself off the rock.

* * *

He's just looked at his watch – eight-thirty – when he sees a glint just to the right. He looks at Sara, who lifts her chin.

"What do you think it is?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

At her side, Brass shrugs. "Check it out, Nicky. Could be related."

The glint is sun, off a plastic bottle. His heart makes a tiny painful lurch in his chest, seeing it. Bottles hold water. Fluid. He knows this. He shuffles over, bends and wants to cry at how much it hurts to reach down. His body aches, all over.

The bottle's as dusty dry as the dirt in which it's laid for untold days. Weeks, months, whatever. He empties out the dirt inside, and looks at Sara.

"Just follow procedure," she says. "We'll find out what it means later."

Holding the bottle, he turns to stare at the horizon. There are no roads out here. There should be, but there aren't. Godforsaken empty nothing. Where is he? Where's the farm, where are the hippies? Carson was dreaming, there's nothing here. Nothing but dirt and rocks and creosote and mesquite. Bugs and buzzards.

There's an outcropping to the right. Maybe a few miles. A cliff facing, maybe shelter. It's going to be pretty toasty out here today.

"We'll go there," Brass says, walking up next to him. "Maybe take a load off for a while. What do you say?"

Nick eyes him, and nods. "Okay."

Brass stays to his right when he starts walking again. Sara's on his left. Bookends. Nick smiles, and shades his eyes.

* * *

It's much too far. He isn't going to make it. Gonna have to sit down now, Jimbo. Just need a little break. And while we're on the subject, got any water on you? Because you don't look thirsty, which means you must have water, and you're not sharing. That's pretty damned unfair of you. Pretty goddamn sneaky.

"Brass isn't coming," someone says directly behind him.

Nick wheels around, stares. Crane is grinning, shaking his head slowly. "Poor Nick," he says with a shrug. "Your friends abandoned you. It sucks when people abandon you, doesn't it? Just when you need them the most. Trusted them the most. Where are they?"

Nick's lips pull back in a snarl. "What'd you do with them? If you hurt them, so help me God, I'll –"

"What? Hurt me back?" Crane is holding a glass of iced tea. Droplets slide down the sides of the glass, plop on the ground. Ice tinkles faintly. He sips, sighs happily. "You couldn't hurt a fly anymore, Nick," he says reasonably. "Have you taken a look at yourself recently? Looking kind of ragged there."

"You're not here," Nick whispers, and takes a step back. "You're not. You're in prison."

Nigel Crane cocks his head to one side, mouth pulling down in a quizzical look. "I'm always with you, Nick," he says kindly. "You'll never lose me. Don't you realize that?"

"No," Nick says, petulantly. "No, I don't want to see you anymore. Go away."

Crane laughs. "Go ahead and sit down, Nick. You won't make it over there anyway. What's the point in trying?"

Nick turns away, reaching up to put his hands over his ears. "Go away. Go away."

He can still hear him. Like Crane is inside his eardrums, inside his head. "You're gonna die out here. All alone. Except for me. I'm your one true friend, Nick. And you pushed me away. You get exactly what you deserve. All alone, and miserable. A three-year-old buzzard will eat your liver tonight at about eight-twenty. And tonight the coyotes will sing in your ears, while they scuffle over the rest of you. The winner will rip what's left of your face off and lick its chops when it's done. By this time tomorrow they'll have to identify you using dental records. Except they never will. Because they'll never find you. Your bones will lie here, bleaching in the sun, until long past the time when your friends are dead, too, your family, everyone you've ever known. No one will even remember there ever was a Nick Stokes. You'll have ceased to exist. You never did exist. And finally even your bones will crumble away. A good wind, and you'll be gone."

Hands pressed to his ears so hard it feels like his skull is caught in a vise. "Shut up!" he screams. "You're not here! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

When he opens his eyes, Crane is gone. He's really alone.

"I do exist," Nick whispers. "I do."

After another moment he stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks on.

* * *

The buzzard shadows him. It never lands, at least not where he can see it. But its shadow keeps flitting overhead. That one, and more. They're waiting. Patient as the desert itself, patient as death. Waiting for him to fall, waiting for him to stop moving, stop fighting, stop living. Then they'll swoop down. Lunch with Nicky. Lunch ON Nicky.

He's in trouble. This much is patently obvious. He can feel it, even if he can't see himself. Walking is very, very hard now. He's still doing it, but he's not sure how much longer he'll keep on. His legs are incredibly heavy. His muscles burn relentlessly, talk about your mutant lactic-acid buildup from hell. Feels like he's got cinder blocks strapped to his ankles.

But there's other stuff, too. Stuff like the way his eyes aren't working all that well anymore. Too dry; he can't focus. Stuff like the way it's getting harder to breathe. Not like asthma, no, this is just plain hard to get his lungs to keep going in and out. Out and in. The air is so hot. It's like trying to breathe with your head stuck in a 400-degree oven. His lungs don't want that kind of air. They don't like it.

His lip is bleeding. The blood actually feels good in his mouth. Wet. Too thick, but so wonderfully wet. He sucks on it, feels the way the cracks widen, kinda sting. The pain isn't bad. He swallows a mouthful of blood and sucks out more.

The little cliff is closer. He'll make it. He will. There's shade there, and a tree, and that could mean water. Underground, probably, but he can still dig. If he has to. Sure.

A few minutes later he pees into the plastic bottle. His urine is the color of strong tea, the way his grandmother used to make it. A handful of tea bags, boiling water, about a cup of sugar, all in a clean gallon milk jug. She made the best tea. Not weak like his mom's. Hers looked like dirty water. Gramma's was serious tea. With ice and a sprig of mint, best damn thing on a hot Texas afternoon.

He tries not to think about it when he drinks. Doesn't really matter. Piss, blood, whatever. It's liquid. It tastes horrible. His tea fantasy disappears. It's salty and acrid and it stinks. But it's wet. Oh thank you Lord, it's wet.

There isn't much of it. When it's gone, he throws the bottle to the side. He has a feeling he won't need it again. His days of writing his name are gone.

His stomach gurgles unpleasantly. He licks a thick warm bubble of blood from his lip and squints at the cliff.

* * *

"I think this used to be Carson."

Gil gazes down at the body. It's hardly human, really. Most of the flesh is gone, courtesy of animals, and the buzzards he and Brass have scared off. The ragged uniform is out of place. An affront. "I think you're right," he says dully, and squats. Slides the badge out of the right breast pocket. There's blood on the fabric. Dry and stiff. The name on the badge is Michael Carson. No surprise.

Brass heaves a big sigh. "Question is, where's Nick?"

Gil's knees pop when he stands upright again. "I don't know."

The area is as bad as Lloyd suggested. Nothing out here but rocks and sand. No shade. No nothing, really.

"See any more buzzards?"

Gil shoots Brass a wounded look, but the horror and dread in Brass's eyes stifle whatever rebuke he would have made. Brass sees it, too. All of it. It's bad. God, it's worse than Gil has let himself ever envision.

"We'll need dogs," Gil says tonelessly. "Lots of them."

Brass nods. "That's not all we'll need." He looks away, vaguely east. "I'll call in. Troopers aren't that far away."

"Good."

He glances again at the body. Hard to say how long Carson's been dead. At least 24 hours. It can't be longer than that. But the flesh is already dry, mummified, where it hasn't been torn and chewed on. This time of year, the desert works fast. Bodies don't have time to rot. They desiccate instead. The humidity is below ten percent, easy. Outdoors, exposed, in this weather, it's a swift and pitiless process.

His brain superimposes Nick's face where Carson's used to be. Tries to see him alive.

He can't.

When Brass touches his shoulder, he flinches. "We'll find him," Brass says softly. "We will."

Gil nods. "I know." He swallows. "But I hope we're in time."

"Me, too."

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

The cliff is not very far away when what's in his stomach decides to make an encore appearance. He's been nauseated for a while now – longer than he's realized – but this is the ultimate indignity. Piling on insult over injury: he had to force himself to GET this, now his body's throwing it away again?

What he throws up isn't much. Way less than he can imagine making him feel so goddamned sick. And he just keeps doing it, kneeling on the ground like a penitent, making his genuflections to the merciless implacable gods of the desert. Over and over again, until he's crying out in between spasms, it hurts a lot, his belly is killing him, spasming so hard on nothing.

It lets up a little, finally, and he sits back on his feet, slumped over, staring at the ground. Blood is dripping in fat blobs on the dirt. Probably his ragged lips, but when he reaches up without much interest he discovers it's his nose. So dried out the membranes are cracking, just like his lips. He tastes blood in the back of his throat, and that makes him heave a few times again.

He tries to cry when that one's done, but he isn't making tears anymore. God, he's so lonely. He's going to die out here. No one's going to hold his hand, or slip him a big bottle of water, or put their arm around him and tell him to rest, relax, it'll all be okay. Nothing's going to be okay. Nothing here, anyway. He can't do any more. He's all done.

"Come on, champ. Just one more." Dad grins at him, lifts his chin. He's tossing the ball from hand to glove, back and forth, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. There's no gray in his hair at all. "One more and we'll head inside, see what's for supper."

"Dad, I can't," Nick tries to say. His tongue lies motionless in his mouth, numb as if he's just gotten a monster shot of Novocaine at the dentist's. He shakes his head, and his dry eyes still won't tear up.

"Make you a deal. One more, and I'll bet you I can throw this all the way to the Smith's house. That's seven houses down, Nicky, end of the block."

Why would he want to do that? It'll hit something. Go through a window, or bounce off Mr. Adamson's shiny new Ford. Adamson's kind of an asshole, even though he minds his manners around Nick's father, the judge. That's what the kids call him. The Judge. Nick has a hard time envisioning his father as someone to be scared of. Respectful to, sure. You learned in the Stokes household what manners were. But scared? Nah. Those people have never seen his dad in that awful paisley bathrobe he wears on Saturday mornings. With egg on the collar.

But he doesn't get much time with his dad lately, and even if he's gonna pitch that ball practically into the next county, Nick will do his best to go retrieve it. Because that's what you do, when you love your dad. And Nick loves his dad, loves him so much sometimes it hurts inside his chest, aches like he'd swallowed something cold, way too fast.

So he stands up, and wipes the blood off his face, and nods. His father winds up, draws his right leg the way Nick's studied so much. The pitch is a thing of beauty. Pure, soaring, fast as a bolt of lightning. Arching into the air, flying straight and true.

"See? Now what'd I tell you?" His father grins, bangs his fist into his glove. "Still got it, I can still bring it, right? Now run get it for me, okay? I'll wait."

He's too tired. It's way too far. He can't make it. But he will. Somehow, he will. Because he wants to walk back in the house with Dad's hand on his shoulder, his too-skinny shoulder, not muscular like Cabe or Dad himself, not yet. But it will be someday.

"Okay, Daddy," he says in his garbled crispy-dry voice. "I'll go get it."

"Piggyback ride if you hurry."

"Okay. Deal."

He smiles at his dad, who's young and handsome and the best damn dad in the whole country, maybe the whole wide world, and turns to go get the ball.

* * *

"The dogs say we go west-southwest." Lt. Tabor points. "Constant radio contact, all right? Don't let this terrain fool you. I know it looks wide-open. But if you want shade – and that's what we think he's looking for, smart boy – you may cram yourself into a spot you'd normally overlook." He nods crisply. "So don't overlook anything. I mean it, folks, this guy's been out here about 36 hours already. It was 127 in the shade yesterday, and he's got no supplies, no water, no nothing. He's gonna be hurting, bad. So let's not make him wait any longer for that rescue. All right?"

The group is bigger than Gil has anticipated. Nearly eighty people, and sixteen dogs. It's a massive operation, and that's partly because Mike Carson's death has hit his colleagues like a full-body blow. It's in Carson's memory that these people have thronged out to an uninhabited section of Nye County, to try to save the guy Carson tried, presumably, to do the same for.

And there are some who don't know Mike Carson from Adam, but who know Nick Stokes very well indeed. They're the people standing with Gil, the ones whose faces are tight with anxiety, brows creased with determination. They won't be leaving empty-handed. Nick won't walk out of here. But alive or not, these folks will be bringing him home.

Next to him, Catherine's expression is hard to read behind her heavy sunglasses. She's smeared sunscreen on her nose, and wisely wears long sleeves, but otherwise she's calm, implacable, steady as the proverbial rock. No one here knows she was weeping when Gil saw her an hour ago. Standing over the bloodstained place where Carson's body had been, mascara running, glasses dangling from her fingers.

She's not crying now. Neither is Warrick, or Sara, or Jim Brass. Greg Sanders looks as if he wants to, but won't let himself. His pale face gleams in the sunlight, young and scared and wary.

It's nearly two in the afternoon. It's blisteringly hot. Over 120, definitely. Nothing moves in this heat, but the foolish gallant humans. Nick has to be holed up someplace. It's the only answer Gil's brain will even tolerate, much less accept. The alternative is too much to contemplate.

At the time Nick's friends and Carson's colleagues are gathering for their trek through the dry hardpan of the desert, Nick is not, in fact, holed up. He's walking toward that elusive cliff, his gait looking distinctly like a guy's who's had about a dozen over the legal limit. Reeling, lurching, staggering. But moving forward. He's whispering to himself. The words aren't possible to understand, even if Gil had been next to him. Nick isn't really even aware he's talking. But in his mind the words are echoing, over and over again. "Just three more houses. Three more houses. Three more."

The group turns and faces southwest, and Nick retches absently and whispers, "Two more houses."

* * *

A couple of trucks shadow them as they walk. Carrying supplies for the searchers, and gear for the rescue they're here to perform. There are dozens of water bottles, sports drinks, boxes of sandwiches. Medical supplies, flares, extra batteries for radios. It's not just for Nick's sake alone. A place like this, you can't be too careful. A human body loses about a quart of water an hour if the temperature is 100 degrees. It's 124 right now. Some of the searchers are already looking seriously wilted. But hunting at night, while cooler, wouldn't be worth it. Too many chances for overlooking possibilities.

Nick doesn't have that long, anyway.

A familiar sense of calm has settled over Gil, while he walks, head swinging from side to side as he inspects the ground. It's far from his first manhunt. If they don't find Nick during the daytime, they'll use a helicopter tonight, look for heat signatures. But there's a problem with that approach, one that Gil knows as well as the sound of his own heart, thumping away in his ears. When the heat's as bad as it is now, things don't cool off at night nearly as much. If they resort to choppers, they'll be chasing a lot of boondoggles. He's seen it before. Finding someone is as much due to luck as diligence.

They have to find Nick now, in the next six hours. By tonight Gil doesn't think there will be much of a hurry any longer.

"Doesn't seem like so long." It's Shelly talking, about five people down the line from Gil. She doesn't sound like she's complaining. Just observing. "He'll still be okay, won't he?"

It's Greg who replies to her. Sounding not so young any longer, brutally frank. "Under normal conditions, sure. It can take up to two weeks to die of dehydration. But in the desert? Only takes a day or two."

Shelly doesn't reply, at least not loudly enough for Gil to overhear.

At his side Catherine sighs, and drinks her water. "How far could he have gone, realistically?" she asks him. Her voice is pitched low, not designed to carry. "Can't be that far."

"Nick was in excellent physical shape, starting out. With no supplies, no water – he still might have gone farther than you think." Gil pulled out his own water bottle and took a tug off it. "If he took shelter during the hottest parts of the day, moved during the night and early morning – and he didn't simply hole up in the coolest place he could find and simply wait, which I hope he did – then twenty-five miles? Thirty?"

"That far?" Her look even wearing sunglasses is appalled. "Jesus, Gil, we won't get that far on foot before nightfall."

"No," he agrees softly. "We won't."

She stops, turns to stare at him. "We've got the direction. Why don't some of us take one of those trucks and go on ahead?"

He meets her look equably. "Because we could miss something along the way."

"Let a couple of the dogs loose. They're freaking anyway, they smell him. We can track using the truck."

She's right. And a part of him wants to leap at it, at the same time another part says it's only a different set of problems.

But it's faster. At this crawl they'll never find Nick in time. And if they don't, what's the point to any of it?

He nods. "You're right. Give me a second."

He turns without waiting for her reply, searching down the line for Jack Tabor's lanky form.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Up close the cliff isn't much to look at. Crumbling sandstone, mostly, a few tenacious mesquites grabbing with long rooty claws for purchase. His feet slip on the scree, and his hands are already bleeding from so many stumbles, barely catching himself in time to keep from sliding all the way down again. But there's a dark oval up ahead. He thinks it's a cave. Probably not a true cave, probably just some kind of open spot. But it's shelter, and he's focused on it with all remaining clarity.

It's getting dark outside. His watch says it's only four, and the sun doesn't set until around nine-thirty. But it's growing dim.

It's important to reach that cave place soon. He thinks maybe, just maybe, this is as far as he'll get. He keeps remembering the cat his sisters owned, the tabby they named Isabel, who wouldn't have anything to do with Nick or Cabe but who purred so loudly around the girls that she sounded like an outboard motor. Isabel had been very sick right around the time of Nick's twelfth birthday, and he'd been startled to find her in his closet when he came running inside to change out of his grotty jeans into something nicer for going out for dinner. She hissed at him when he reached for her, but there wasn't much spirit in it. He sat down and said, "What's the matter, Izzy?" And he'd seen that the membrane was up around her eyes. She looked sick. He sat for a while, watching the cat, talking to her, and when he paused he heard her loud purr.

Pretty soon his mom had yelled that they needed to leave, and he finished changing clothes and pelted downstairs. He didn't say anything about Isabel to anyone – he'd actually forgotten all about it by the time they all trooped home, full of pizza and ice cream, still chattering about the movie they'd gone to see – but he found her late that night, stiff and dead, still lying in the back of his closet on top of one of his old tee shirts. Old age, maybe, he never found out what killed her.

But now, forcing his trembling legs to climb, his vision graying out and his senses of taste and smell utterly gone, he thinks he knows why Isabel chose a closet for her death chamber. It didn't have to be his; probably only because his door was open and others weren't. But the urge to crawl away, to lie dying in a dark and peaceful place, lying on soft things – that he understands. Death is a private matter, ultimately. And when one's time has come, as he knows in some bone-deep way his has, it compels him to do the same as Isabel. To seek out some out-of-the-way place, where he can burrow in, hidden from prying animal eyes and noses, at least until it's done.

After that, it won't much matter. But right now, he has to do it.

Clawing for purchase, one of his fingernails peels back slowly, exactly like one of those postage stamps, the self-sticking kind. It doesn't really hurt. And it doesn't bleed much. He eyes the wound without much interest, and goes back to pushing himself forward. Not too much farther now. And then he can lie down. No soft old tee shirts to make a nest out of here, but that's okay. It'll be enough to just crash for a while. He's so very, very tired.

* * *

Tabor's taken Catherine's idea and run with it. The big group is split into four now, each with a couple of dogs and about twenty people. No one wants to commit to one single direction – putting all their rescue eggs into one basket, as it were – and so they scatter, splitting supplies and each taking one or two of the medics.

Gil's worked with a couple of these dogs before. He trusts dogs; they're not likely to second-guess themselves, and they're eager to go. These two are straining west-southwest, and a part of him cringes at the idea. Why would Nick go this direction? Should have headed to the foothills to the northeast, where there was shade, and if no obvious water, at least a more protected environment. But the dogs whine and edge south.

The truck's been loaded with what he hopes they'll need: Dean Wheelis, an EMT Gil also knows; Dean's supplies, including IV equipment, several bags of Ringer's lactate, bottles of electrolyte-replacing liquids. Catherine's along for the ride, and Warrick. Sara and Greg have split off with the group heading southeast, and Brass is back with Tabor, overseeing things.

It's nearly five before they get going. Time is pressing; Gil feels it like a huge weight shoving him down, making his lungs tight, his ears ring. Forty-eight hours and Nick's chances of survival will be just about nil. They have until sundown before searching becomes at best an academic exercise. That's a precious four, maybe five hours, that's all. That will make the difference.

The dogs chuff and wriggle at the ends of leashes held by two deputies on foot.

"We could ride in the truck," Catherine says doubtfully.

"We might miss something." Gil meets one of the deputies' eyes and nods. "Ready?"

"Let's go," the man agrees. Gil doesn't know his name.

One of the dogs utters a strangled bark, and nearly yanks its human companion to his knees in its eagerness to move.

* * *

"This isn't so bad." Grissom surveys the little cave. "This ought to do just fine."

Nick doesn't nod. In the past hour he's begun to feel very odd. He can't swallow, for one thing. Never much thought about swallowing, but now that he can no longer do it he wants to all the time. Every once in a while he gets the shakes, except they're not just trembling, not anything he's ever felt before. More like a dog coming out of the water and shaking himself all over. When those happen he has to just lie down, right where he is, and let them run their course. They hurt.

The cave is tiny, and littered with various kinds of crap. There are little animal skeletons, and when he sits down his flailing hand mashes a tiny skull, maybe a bird, or rodent, explodes into powder under his fingers. It's slightly cooler in here, out of the sun, protected from the ever-present wind. Much, much better.

Grissom is standing outside the cave, which doesn't make sense. It's a pretty good incline, and yet he looks like he's standing on level ground.

"Come on, take a load off." Catherine's sitting next to him, immaculate and fresh in her cotton shirt and jeans. She pats her thighs. "You just need some rest, that's all."

Nick leans over and presses his hot cheek against her leg. She's right. Much better now. His stomach clenches, but after a long painful moment it lets go, doesn't hurt long.

He wonders if bats live in ultra-tiny caves like this, and then he closes his eyes.

* * *

An hour after they set out, it's clear that the dogs believe Nick's around here someplace. They set a stiff pace, and much of the time Gil isn't quite keeping up, letting them go on ahead while he trot-walks behind. They've come almost ten miles, and he's drunk three bottles of water. And he still feels vaguely thirsty.

They crossed into California a few miles ago, and since then they've had additional escorts. CHIP has lent a hand, and there's actually a geologist from the area, a woman with short blond hair and an unsmiling, sun-browned face who explains the topology of the Death Valley borderlands, suggests areas that might offer shelter for a wanderer. But the dogs zoom forward, strictly southwest, and the geologist just shrugs.

"How long did you say he's been out here?" she asks.

Gil shrugs. "Since early yesterday morning. Roughly."

"No water at all? Nothing?"

Gil shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," she says, squinting against the slanting sun.

She drives away in a battered red pickup truck. Gil opens another bottle of water and follows the dogs.

* * *

He's burning up. He hasn't gotten out in time, and the house is burning, burning. Flames lick at his arms, and he cries out, soundless over the roar of the fire.

"Shhh," someone breathes. "It's okay. It'll all be okay."

The paint on the bedroom wall ripples, runs, evaporates into smoke and then excited yellow flame.

* * *

"He cut north here," the deputy calls. Roger, his name is Roger. His face is red with the exertion of keeping up with the panting dog he's holding.

Warrick looks more tired than the deputy. Gil's actually a little worried about Warrick. "Go sit in the truck," he tells him, shaking his head. "Catch your breath."

"So damn hot," Warrick says thickly. "God almighty."

"I know. Go."

Warrick goes to the truck, where Catherine already is. Gil's tired enough and dry enough to follow them, but he can't. Not yet.

If they feel this way now, with plenty of water, how does Nick feel? Does Nick feel anything any longer?

He plods over the hardpacked ground and keeps his eyes on the dogs.

* * *

"I'll get you some 7-Up," his mother says soothingly. "That'll help."

"Mom, I feel so bad," Nick tries to say. But his mouth doesn't work anymore. Nothing seems to work. All he can do is lie in bed and wish it would stop. All of it.

His mother smells like perfume and cookies. Her hand is cool, stroking his cheek. "Be still, sugar," she murmurs. "Would you like me to sing to you?"

Yes, please, he thinks.

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep-y, little baby."

He listens, and his lips crack open when he smiles.

* * *

"Christ," Roger wheezes. "Bet he's holed up yonder. How in the fuck did he get this far?"

Gil doesn't know. The sun is canting lower in the sky, swooping down. He's exhausted, and the slope ahead looks treacherous. He's not completely sure he can scale it. Not without a breather, without something. He chews a tasteless protein bar and chases it with spit-warm water.

One of the dogs utters a sharp bark.

* * *

"Mom, make it stop," he cries, and she pauses in the middle of rocking him, going stiff and cautious.

"The doctor will be here soon," she whispers.

He gives a weary nod, and after a moment she sings, "When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses."

* * *

They're all climbing together. Grabbing each other for purchase, sending skirls of dust and tiny clittering rocks down the slope.

Above, the first dog howls. It sounds like triumph, and Gil surges forward.

* * *

"Blacks and bays, dapples and grays. Coach and six white horses."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

"Holy shit."

It's a tiny cave, not even big enough to really warrant the name. A shallow pocket cut into the cliff side, about six feet in a rough oval, barely tall enough to sit up inside.

Behind him, Dean's breathing is harsh and fast. "Is he in there?"

Gil stands as steadily as he can, feeling his feet trying to slip treacherously out from under him. Roger's squeezed inside the miniature cave, and beyond him there's a body. It's not moving.

Roger turns, showing Gil his sweaty red face. "I can't tell," he says helplessly. "God almighty."

"Let me through."

Dean pushes past Gil, and his bulky pack scrapes Gil's shoulder on the way by. Roger's sliding backward, plants his foot in the scree to keep from simply riding all the way down the cliff side again. The two dogs are whining, panting so loud Gil wants to hiss at them to shut the hell up.

"Can't get a radial pulse." Dean sounds remote, cool, professional. "But he's breathing."

Gil's knees wobble. He's breathing, he's alive. Somehow, after all this, Nick's alive.

"Somebody get on the radio," Dean snaps without turning around. "Get that chopper here ASAP."

There's been a Lifeflight crew on standby for hours. They're maybe ten minutes away. Gil listens to Roger talking, and looks over his shoulder. Warrick's about halfway down the slope, standing at an awkward slant, hand shading his eyes as he looks up.

"Is he there?" he calls.

Gil nods slowly.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes," Gil answers, and hears his voice echoing off the rock walls.

Even lower on the slope, Catherine sits down hard. Warrick's teeth shine in a grin.

* * *

"Gonna be a bitch getting him out of here." Dean wipes his face on his sleeve while he rummages in his pack. "Christ. He's all jammed up inside there."

"Let me see him."

Dean glances at him. "For a second, okay? He's got no veins, and I gotta get IVs in him."

Gil nods.

The little alcove-cave smells dusty and sweet. Gil wedges himself awkwardly into the side, bent over, staring at Nick. He's lying on his side, a rock digging into his right cheek. It has to be Nick, there's no other candidate. But it doesn't look like Nick at all. Nick's face is drawn skeletally tight, a mask pulled thin over the bones. His closed eyes are sunk deep into the sockets, and blood has clotted around his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. His hand lies motionless on the dirt. When Gil touches it, it's cool and the flesh tents. There's no capillary refill, no natural elasticity.

"Hi, Nicky," Gil whispers. "Sorry it took us so long. I'm so sorry."

"Keep talking to him." Dean scoots in, too, takes the hand Gil has recoiled away from. "See if you can wake him up. If he'll wake up he might have a chance."

But Nick doesn't stir. Not while Dean searches fruitlessly for a vein that still works, some way to start the fluids into Nick's dehydrated body.

Gil reaches out to touch Nick's sunken cheek. It's fiery hot, horribly so.

"His temp's 105.6," Dean mutters. "Christ. Where's that chopper?"

They both hear it, a moment later. Dean sighs. "Thank God."

* * *

It takes nearly an hour to get Nick out of his cave and onto the helicopter. In that time all of them get a good look at what his ordeal has done to him. It's hard to believe he could be alive, seeing him now. It's hard to imagine that he will survive at all, even after all the people working on him, the diligent efforts of the medical personnel. He may not. Gil isn't prepared to say.

He sits next to Catherine, and feels her hand on his own, squeezing hard. When he looks at her he sees lines cut through the dust on her face, tracks of wetness.

"He's got to make it," she says in a parched, terrible voice. "After all this. He has to be okay."

Gil doesn't say anything. He nods, and holds her hand, and looks back while they put Nick on the helicopter. This is the end stage of dehydration. When the blood has grown too thick to circulate, and can no longer move heat out of the body. Nick's burning with fever, the outward sign of a body whose inner thermostat no longer works, blazing out of control.

But he's alive. Perhaps only clinically, but that's enough for now.

* * *

The wind stirred up by the chopper is strong enough to disturb the dirt for hundreds of feet. It catches bits of vegetation, creates tiny tornadic eddies. One of those eddies catches the plastic bottle Nick carried for several miles. It bounces, flips end over end, rolls until it thumps into a rut made by the occasional torrential spring rains.

This rut will deepen next spring, and after four more years it will widen enough to join up with several similar long fissures in the hard earth. It takes about sixty years before the rut is big enough to hold water for longer periods. By that time the climate is well along in its changes, and rain isn't as rare in these parts. The rut becomes a stream, almost a river at times. Plenty of water for someone in need, although it's sandy-brown and silty at best. But it's a beacon for wildlife, who beat paths to its banks.

A thousand years from now, this little rut is a wide river, and the cliff where Nick found shelter and comfort in the arms of his mother, who at that moment was listening to her husband as he found out their youngest child was missing in the desert, is long disappeared. There are other cliffs, much taller ones, and they're well-covered with undergrowth. No one in Nick's rescue party would even recognize the area any longer. It isn't desert, but the beginnings of bottomland forest, nourished by plentiful rain and the yellow, steamy atmosphere. The river rushes downhill, past cracked asphalt roadways, tipped-over highway markers. Toward the verdant empty canyons of what once was a place you could see for miles, lights brightening the sky at night.

But for now, this is still the desert, and the plastic bottle wedges between a piece of limestone and the roots of a young mesquite. And when the helicopter's rotors are gone, disappearing toward the glow on the southeast horizon, a few critters peep out again, cautious but resolute. There's no advantage to hiding any longer once the obvious dangers are gone. A horned lizard sniffs at the bottle, and scuttles on past it. Nothing edible there. It's just another bit of detritus, that's all. Move along.

* * *

The death of Mike Carson and the eventual rescue of Nick Stokes create a media flurry for a few days. Nick's survival is heralded as miraculous, even though it's much more than two days before that survival is in any way guaranteed. There are multiple public-interest stories about desert safety, what to do if one is stranded without water. Nick's by no means the only victim of this terrible heat, but he's certainly the most sensational.

The heat wave breaks a week after Nick's arrival in the hospital. Rain, cool and welcome, beats down on Gil as he hurries through the main entrance. He shakes out his umbrella and tucks it under his arm before taking the elevator to Nick's room.

Nick's family is here en masse, his pensive-looking father and calm, competent mother, a brother so much taller and heavier than Nick that it's hard to see the familial resemblance, more sisters than Gil can actually remember from visit to visit. The hospital is a seething hive of Stokeses, uncles and aunts and cousins and nieces and nephews.

But tonight the titanic family is out, and Nick's company is far more familiar: Catherine, Sara, Greg, Warrick. They all tend to congregate in the early evening, before they have to go to work. This is the fourth evening in a row they've all gotten together like this, and Gil suspects they'll keep doing it until Nick's eventually released from the hospital.

Everyone smiles when he walks in, but it's Nick Gil looks to first. Nick, whose face is no longer the mummified mask Gil glimpsed in that tiny sour-smelling California cave. Traces linger; Nick is still pinched-looking, and he tires easily. But a week of multiple wide-open IVs and treatment for his injured kidneys has done him a world of good. His doctors say he will be ready to go home in a few more days. It's astounding, and wonderful.

"We were just talking about you," Catherine announces, grinning.

"Oh?"

Someone pushes over a chair, and Gil sits, still taking in Nick's renewed health, the strength in the hand that briefly grips Gil's before subsiding to lie on the white blanket. "My ears weren't burning."

Nick's lips are still scabbed, but he smiles. "About how from now on we'll make sure we carry water on our persons when we're out in the field," he says. There's humor in his voice, but his eyes are older, warier. His eyes are the most different now, in the aftermath. Nick has aged, more than his body warrants. That look is wiser, and sadder.

"At the very least," Gil agrees.

"I still don't know how you did it, man." Warrick still hasn't quite relaxed around Nick, Gil sees. It may be guilt over how long it took to find him, or that Warrick wasn't with him when all this began. It may simply be lingering discomfort in the face of Nick's terrible initial debility. Warrick shifts in his seat, shakes his head. "All alone like that. Jesus."

Nick considers. "Well, I wasn't alone."

They all gaze at him. Unsure if this isn't another one of the hallucinations that plagued Nick's first few days in the MICU. He wasn't lucid then, and sometimes they wonder if he is now. But his smile is calm and quite sane. "I mean, sure, I was alone. But it was like you guys – were with me, kinda. Talking me through it. Weird, I know. But that's how it felt."

"I would have been terrified," Catherine whispers. She's got Nick's left hand, and it doesn't look as if she's letting go anytime soon. "Scared out of my mind."

"I guess." Nick's look at her is sweet, kind of sad. "Yeah. That, too. But after a while, you stop being so scared. Or maybe you don't. I don't really know. You do what you gotta do."

Gil contemplates his hands, lying loose on his lap. "I read an article several years ago." They look at him, but he's not quite seeing them any longer. "A man was talking about a fellow he knew, who was lost in the Sahara. He knew the ways of the desert, all of that, and yet he wandered, and he eventually died. His friend said that we all have our times to go. And that was his. Boucenna. I remember his name. The friend said it wasn't a bad thing. That he walked because that was his destiny."

"Because he was out of his mind with thirst," Sara observes tightly. "More like."

"Maybe." Gil shrugs. "I'm not sure." He looks at Nick. "Who did you see in the desert?" he asks.

"Everyone," Nick replies. His dark eyes meet Gil's, and there is understanding there. In Nick's gaze Gil can see endless vistas, beyond swirling dust and the hiss of the wind. In Nick's calm look Gil sees what he himself has only glimpsed before, and never completely grasped. The contemplation of the infinite, perhaps. Recognition of the abyss before which we all eventually stand.

Or it may only be that Nick is tired, and those eyes are only glad to have made it.

"How do you feel?" Gil asks softly.

Nick smiles. "Good. Did you find my truck?"

People laugh, and Gil grins. "We found it."

"My shirt," Nick says suddenly. "Carson gave me -- I got something. For his wife."

"The necklace. We found it."

"Can you give it to her? I promised."

"Absolutely. It's in my desk at the lab."

"Thank God." Nick nods slowly. His smile is gone, but the brief shadow is already gone from his eyes.

Gil leans forward and touches Nick's hand again. It's warm, and Nick's skin springs back, the way it should. "Anything else you need?"

Nick shakes his head. He looks sleepy. "I'm good. Glad you guys came by."

"Get some rest," Catherine says, disengaging her own hand. "We'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sounds good."

Nick's eyes slide closed, and Gil can't see the knowledge there anymore. Nick is just a man, who's been through a terrible ordeal and needs some more shut-eye.

Gil pats Nick's limp hand once more and glances around. Who did Nick see, out there in the desert? All of them? Hallucinating? That's what it has to be.

But for a moment he wonders. About the clarity in Nick's gaze, the sense that Nick has seen things Gil has not, ever. He wonders if maybe there is more to it. The difference between a lone Bedouin's destiny and Nick's own. Why Boucenna walked to his death, and Nick did not.

Catherine's hand touches his shoulder, and he looks up. "Time to go to work," she says, smiling and lifting her chin.

"Yes," Gil says rustily. "You're right."

 

END


End file.
